The days slipped by like quiet breaths, and before anyone realized it, winter's chill had softened into the cool dusk of spring.
For Rin, the passing of time was marked not by the sun or moon, but by the rhythm of his work—boiling, distilling, refining. Every few days, he carried a tray of glass vials into the First Prince's chambers, where Alaric waited in practiced indifference.
Sometimes the prince complained about the taste, sometimes he didn't. Either way, he drank it all. The results spoke for themselves: no fainting attendants, no sudden outbursts of pheromones that choked the air. But in a place where truth was currency, the news had not yet been traded.
By Alaric's order—and the King's agreement—his progress was kept secret. The fewer who knew, the safer they all were.
So the palace continued as it always had, bustling with its own quiet tension. Rin walked the stone halls unnoticed, always with his head slightly bowed, the scent of herbs clinging faintly to his sleeves.
Only Darius and a handful of trusted aides knew why the air around the prince's wing no longer burned like stormfire.
---
As the moon waxed toward its middle arc, the kingdom began its annual preparations for the King's birthday banquet—a festival that filled the capital for weeks before the day itself.
The Royal City of Eldraeven, with its tall spires and streets paved in pale stone, came alive with color. Ribbons of scarlet and gold hung between towers, musicians played along the plazas, and merchants hawked gilded sweets in the shape of crowns.
The common folk celebrated in earnest. The nobles, however, had sharper reasons.
This year's celebration carried weight—it was more than a commemoration of the King's age. It was a reminder that his reign, though long and respected, was aging, and that the time to consider succession was drawing near.
Two princes, two very different fates.
The First Prince, Alaric Valen, born of the late Empress, had long been hidden from the public eye due to his "affliction"—the uncontrollable pheromones that made his presence unbearable even to trained guards.
The Second Prince, Caelum Valen, son of the Queen Consort, had spent the past year leading an expedition to the western provinces—a campaign meant to win him both military glory and public favor.
And so, in the capital, the question that fluttered through parlors and taverns alike was the same:
: "Who will appear at the banquet?"
At the markets, vendors gossiped while polishing glass flutes and setting out trinkets for the celebration.
"They say the Second Prince might not return in time," muttered one woman, stringing garlands by her stall. "He's still stuck in the frontier with his troops."
"Then the First Prince?" another asked, skeptical. "Don't be ridiculous. The moment he steps into the hall, every noble will drop dead from his scent. That's what they say."
"They also said he's gone mad once," her companion replied dryly. "Rumors change faster than the weather. But who knows—perhaps he'll surprise us."
A nervous laugh followed, though no one truly believed it.
The First Prince of Valen had not been seen in public for over three years. If he appeared now, it would shake the entire capital.
---
Within the palace, the atmosphere was no less tense.
The Queen Consort's faction moved discreetly, weaving subtle threads of influence through banquet preparations. Every noblewoman in her circle vied for invitations, every house sought to align itself closer to her power.
Her son's absence was inconvenient, but temporary—she told herself that much. Once Caelum returned, the court would see which prince was capable of ruling, and which was a burden hidden behind closed doors.
And as for the whispers that the First Prince had "grown calmer" lately? Laughable. How many times had the same rumor spread, only to end with broken glass and ruined servants?
She had learned long ago that silence from Alaric's wing meant nothing.
---
Meanwhile, in the Royal Apothecary Garden, Rin bent over a cluster of glowing plants, the sunlight spilling over his shoulders. He trimmed a stem of silver sage , crushing it carefully into the base mixture.
Lys approached. "You're still here?"
"Almost finished." Rin didn't look up. "I need this batch ready before the celebration begins. His Highness requested a full supply."
"...You mean, before the King's banquet?" Lys asked, setting the lantern beside him. "You think he'll actually attend?"
Rin paused, the silver shears hovering above the petals. His tone was mild, but his words were laced with quiet irony.
"Attend? The First Prince? That would cause quite the uproar."
Lys chuckled softly. "So it's impossible?"
Rin smiled faintly, eyes glinting in the lamplight. "In this palace, impossible is just a word people use before something happens."
For a moment, neither spoke. The morning wind brushed through the leaves, carrying with it the faint metallic tang of damp earth and amber resin.
The King's birthday drew near, and though the world still whispered that the First Prince was broken—only a few souls knew that the storm was, at last, beginning to quiet.